


Do It Anyway

by moonlighten



Series: Feel the Fear [69]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Background Relationships, Gen, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July, 2010: England has decided that there's something he needs to say to America. He just needs to work up the courage to go along with that conviction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before things got so thoroughly sidetracked by Scotland/France, this was one of the first fics I planned on writing in the FtF universe... 
> 
> Also, it was originally meant to be England POV, but Wales POV has a tendency to creep up on me regardless of my initial intentions.

**4th July, 2010; Washington, D.C., USA**  
  
  
  
A week ago, when Wales had first seen the small parcel, it had been wrapped in shiny blue paper and topped with a silver bow.  
  
The next day, the bow had disappeared and been replaced with a simple white tag bearing America’s name, written with such a forceful hand that the dot above the ‘i’ had punched clear through the card. In turn, the tag vanished the following day and in its place, as if in an act of contrition, sat a twist of red, blue and white ribbon, wrapped around a sprig of dried lavender.  
  
Since then, both paper and ribbons changed colour, quality and texture so many times that Wales ceased trying to keep track of them. Today’s combination is deep burgundy and gold: one that is quite pleasing to Wales’ eye, but England is evidently still unsure of, judging by how reluctant he seems to be to simply pick up the gift and get moving.  
  
Wales can sympathise with his brother’s indecision to a degree, but they’re already running almost an hour late for America’s party as it is and can’t really spare the time for England’s prolonged aesthetic evaluation and repeated deep sighs, never mind yet another one of his fastidiously exact rewrappings.  
  
“It looks fine,” Wales says. “Lovely, even.”  
  
England reaches out for the parcel, but stops himself at the last moment yet again, his hands resting uncertainly in the air just above it. “Maybe, though I…” He takes a deep breath, but when he resumes speaking, his voice still sounds small and strained. “Do you think he’ll like it? The present itself, I mean, not just the wrapping.”  
  
All Wales has been able to glean is that whatever England had eventually bought for America after a fortnight of fruitless daily shopping excursions is that it is heavier than it looks as though it should be and rattles slightly when it’s moved. England has been very careful that he never sees it unwrapped, and he has refused to either confirm or deny any of Scotland’s increasingly preposterous speculations about it.  
  
“I’m sure he will,” he says, though, as they _definitely_ don’t have the time for a desperate last-minute dash to buy something else.  
  
“I thought so too, but now it’s time to give it to him? I’m becoming less and less convinced.” His fingers twitch a little, but don’t come any closer to touching the parcel. “What did you buy him in the end?”  
  
“Socks. No-one can ever have too many of them, right?” says Wales, who actually thinks nothing of the sort, he simply doesn’t want to risk having one of his poems mockingly performed to a wider audience. It’s bad enough when it’s just family.  
  
England doesn’t appear in the least bit heartened by this admission of unimaginative gifting, so Wales digs a little deeper. “ _Yr Alban_ ’s just bought him some of that whisky he always gets you for Christmas, which I’m pretty sure he intends on drinking himself, and _Gogledd_ hasn’t bought him anything at all. So, compared to the rest of us, nothing you give him would be a disappointment.”  
  
“I suppose you’re right,” England says, and though he doesn’t sound particularly persuaded of the truth of his own words, he does finally summon up sufficient conviction to pick up the damn present and tuck it under his arm.  
  
He doesn’t seem willing to start moving, even when Wales takes a couple of encouraging steps towards the hotel room door himself, though. Instead, his hands, now freed from their diffident hovering, are lifted towards his neck and he begins fiddling with his collar.  
  
“You don’t think… You don’t think I’m a little overdressed, do you?” he asks.  
  
The last birthday party of America’s Wales had attended had been over sixty years back, and so he can’t be entirely confident about the precise level of formality expected at them nowadays, but his immediate and instinctive answer would still be an unequivocal yes, all the same. Even all those decades ago, he can’t remember being required to wear a _cravat_ , and yet England has dug one out from somewhere, and the faint scent of dust and mothballs lingers around him as a consequence, even despite the valiant efforts of what smells to be about a litre of his most expensive cologne.  
  
Wales cannot bring himself to say _yes_ , because everything about his brother – from the rough order he’s managed to fight his hair into down to the mirrored shine on his shoes – bespeaks such an intensity of attention to his appearance that it feels cruel to disparage his efforts in any way.  
  
England hasn’t breathed a word of his intentions for the night to Wales, but he presumes they involve America, anyway. He’d obviously been working up the nerve to approach him with some important aim in mind at Canada’s own party three days ago before Scotland thoughtlessly jumped in with his size 14s and ruined everything.  
  
It’s impossible to say whether America will be impressed by conscientiously wrapped presents and cravats by themselves, but hopefully that the thought and care that went into their choosing is just as clear to him as it to Wales.  
  
“You look fine, too, _Lloegr_ ,” Wales says. “Come on, we’d better get moving or the party’s going to be over before we even arrive.”  
  
After one last quick check of his reflection and refolding of his pocket handkerchief, England is ready to oblige.  
  
They only manage to make it as far as Northern Ireland’s hotel room, however, because the first words out of their brother’s mouth when he opens the door to Wales’ knock are: “What the fuck have you got around your neck, England?”  
  
The next half hour is spent helping England decide between a tie and bowtie to replace his cravat.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
By the time they reach America’s house, there’s little evidence of England’s nervousness remaining.  
  
Wales can see traces of it lingering in the faint lines scored across his forehead, but every other aspect of his expression and stiff posture suggests nothing else but annoyance, just as every word out of his mouth has since they left the hotel.  
  
Their journey was accompanied by a non-stop list of complaints about the traffic, reckless drivers, having to drive on the right, and how badly the hire car handled compared to England’s own Bentley, Land Rover, _and_ Mini. And after they arrived at their destination without incident in good time despite his relentless pessimism, he saw fit to pour scorn on the decorations America has put up around his door, and, thereafter, bemoan their host’s failure to answer it the second after England rang the bell.  
  
In a way, it’s comforting, as Wales is far more used to his brother expressing his anxieties as snappish irritation about anything and everything rather than admit to even a hint of them aloud, but only in the very smallest of ways. Mostly, it’s as exhausting as it always is which makes America’s eventual appearance such a relief that Wales is almost tempted to hug him in greeting.  
  
He restrains himself, because despite the displaced joy at seeing him and the celebratory nature of the day, it just isn’t something he and America _do_.  
  
Wales had tried to embrace him a few times, back when America was much younger, but the other nation had always wriggled away and gone in search of England’s awkward affection, instead. It had seemed pointless to keep trying after that, and even now, holding his hand out to be shaken seems almost like too much of an imposition, somehow.  
  
America takes it eagerly enough that Wales feels foolish afterwards for having worried and also guilty about the package tucked into his jacket pocket. America’s wide grin and readily expressed happiness at seeing him there after so many years absence from his birthday celebrations seems to demand something far more meaningful in return than socks.  
  
Wales resolves to find time to scribble down a verse or two in honour of the day before it ends.  
  
Northern Ireland is treated to one of the bone-crushing, back-slapping hugs of the sort America tends to bestow on Australia – he looks to be simultaneously both pleased and taken aback by the unexpectedly close encroachment into his personal space; emotions conflicting enough that they seemingly serve to render him incapable of responding to either of them and thus also immobile – and a promise to take him on a tour of the house, which he hasn’t visited since he was too small to have any real memory of it.  
  
It’s only when he turns towards England that America’s smile falters and his glib tongue stills. His arms rise and then fall again, he takes a small step forward and then back; plainly undecided whether a handshake, hug, or no physical contact at all would be appropriate.  
  
England’s face gives no clues, even to Wales. He thinks he can discern a small spark of something that may be a challenge in the sharpness of his brother’s gaze as he watches America flounder, but nothing more.  
  
Eventually, England snorts loudly and, perhaps, dismissively, and simply shoulders his way past America and into the house.  
  
Seemingly as an afterthought, he shoves his gift into America’s hands; so roughly that the beautiful gold bow is torn clean off and falls to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

All Wales' fretting had been for naught, because despite their unconscionably late arrival, they are far from the last to arrive.  
  
In fact, when America finishes giving Northern Ireland and Wales the grand tour of his house and he ushers them into his living room, there appear to be no more than a dozen or so nations already in attendance, huddled in tight little knots of twos and threes.  
  
Even so, there are far too many for Wales' liking. Nations bear down so much more heavily on the earth than humans do that they distort the natural rhythms of its ambient magic. Wales learnt long ago to tune out the particular discordant notes his family stir with their presence, but he's so unused to being around his own kind any sort of significant numbers nowadays that he has lost the knack for doing the same amongst those who are relative strangers to him.  
  
The dizzying eddies of displaced magic swirling through the air make Wales' eyes water, and crackle like static electricity across his skin, raising the fine hairs on his arms in prickling waves. It feels as though there's a storm brewing, and Wales' temples throb in the same way they always do when the pressure drops in the quiet moments before it thunders.  
  
His headache only increases when the inevitable questions begin.  
  
'Could you get me another drink?', or ' direct me to the bathroom?', or 'fetch me this, that, or the other?', on and exasperatingly on until Wales finally grows sick enough of hearing them and offering gentle corrections thereafter that he gives up on all attempts at being sociable and retreats to the quiet spot Northern Ireland has already claimed for his own in a secluded corner of the room.  
  
"I think I should start wearing some sort of badge when I come to these sorts of things," he grumbles to his brother. "Not one with 'Wales' on it, of course, because most of them look just as blank after I've said that as they did before, but something more like... Like, 'Hello, whilst you may not recognise me, I'm not actually staff. I'm England's brother. No, not the one dating France, the one with the male voice choirs, and rugby, and—"  
  
"Sheep," Northern Ireland puts in.  
  
"Christ, no, it wouldn't say anything about sheep. It's amazing how many nations have heard the sheep-shagger jokes even if they know sod all else about me. I wouldn't want to even risk strengthening the association."  
  
Northern Ireland nods philosophically, and then says, "It'd have to be a pretty big badge. You'd probably be better off handing out pamphlets or something."  
  
His expression is completely blank, his tone neutral, so Wales cannot tell whether he's offering honest commiseration, being obtuse, or simply taking the piss. Whichever it is, it's just as aggravating as every other interaction Wales has suffered through thus far this evening.  
  
"I know they do exactly the same thing with you," he says. "Doesn't it bother you at all?"  
  
Northern Ireland shakes his head, and then digs an exceedingly crumpled five dollar bill out of one of the pockets of his jeans, which he holds up, triumphant, under Wales' nose. "Someone gave me a tip."  
  
"And you're planning on keeping it?!" Wales says, horrified. "You should find whoever it was and hand it straight back to them."  
  
"No, I fucking shouldn't." The bill is hurriedly snatched away again. "I went and fetched them a glass of wine like they asked for. I earned this."  
  
Northern Ireland would doubtless consider that his night had been well spent if he came out of it five dollars or more richer, even if he continued to be misidentified or otherwise ignored throughout. He seems to be just as indifferent to other nations' company as he is to that of humans or the fae.  
  
Wales doesn't normally feel that he is lacking for it in any way, save for occasions such as these, when his relative isolation from the rest of the world is brought into such stark relief.  
  
Here, amongst his fellow nations, he should be able to relax, let down his guard, because there's no need for the countless little lies and evasions that govern the vast majority of his days. There's no need to be 'Dylan', or remember the fine details of the fake history he has invented and reinvented for himself every decade of his existence for the past five hundred years or more.  
  
He feels more like a trespasser here, more out of place, than he ever has whilst pretending to be a mortal amongst his people.  
  
And England _knows_ this, and still he had insisted that Wales had to accompany him tonight. Practically prostrated himself at Wales' feet and _begged_ him to come.  
  
Assuming he would be required as the moral support his brother couldn't quite bring himself to ask for outright, Wales had eventually relented, if only because England struggles to summon up the strength of will to drag himself through this day even when he's at a remove of thousands of miles from America. It would seem only logical that he would want a pair of helping hands – or three, as it turned out – to keep him from flying apart entirely when they were both under the same roof.  
  
Now they are here, however, England's motives seem even more opaque. By the time Wales stepped through America's front door, England had vanished from the hallway beyond, and he hadn't seen a single trace of him anywhere in the house, even though America had shown off near every inch of it during his tour.  
  
"Do you think we should go and look for England?" he asks Northern Ireland, somewhat reluctantly, as he has no real desire to actually find their brother. No doubt he will be wretchedly upset, angry enough to lash out at anyone foolish to venture within striking range, and sobbing hard enough to do himself an injury, and Wales has no more idea of how best to comfort him at such times than he did when first confronted with such behaviour more than two centuries ago.  
  
"I reckon he just saw himself in a mirror and decided to get changed somewhere." Northern Ireland shrugs. "I would too, if I'd been stupid enough come out wearing _that_ bowtie. He looks like a twat."  
  
Northern Ireland's reasoning is flimsier than damp tissue paper, but Wales is glad to – carefully – grasp hold of it all the same. It's not much of an excuse, but it eases his sense of guilt far more efficiently than the nothing he'd been able to come up with on his own.  
  
"You're probably right," he says, smiling at Northern Ireland in relief and gratitude. "He'll show up again soon enough, I imagine."  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  
When England does re-emerge, his bowtie is still very definitely, if not firmly, in place. It's set slightly askew, one corner poking against the underside of his chin, and the opposite one drooping to rest against the hollow of his throat, bared by the two buttons left atypically undone at his collar.  
  
He greets both Northern Ireland and Wales with equally uncharacteristic exuberance, and then thrusts one of the bottles of beer his is carrying into each of their hands.  
  
Northern Ireland tries to pass his bottle back, likely fearing that it's a trap of some kind as England would never usually encourage him to drink, especially where other people might see and judge him for his parenting skills accordingly, but England refuses to take it.  
  
"Get it down your neck," he says, flinging one arm up and over Northern Ireland's scrawny shoulders. He pulls him close against his side, and adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "You're going to need it. Scotland and the frog have just arrived."  
  
Northern Ireland wrinkles his nose. "How many have you had, England?" he asks, his voice a little wheezy from holding his breath. "You smell like a pub drip tray."  
  
"Just a couple," England says. He pats his free hand against the side of his jacket, which sloshes faintly, and then gives Northern Ireland a sloppy wink. "And a nip or three of whisky."  
  
Judging by the pronounced list of his body, the slight slur of his words, and the floridness of his cheeks, Wales thinks it more likely that the real answer to that question is closer to 'four or five' and 'near half a bottle'. He's not even been gone an hour. If he carries on at the same rate, he'll be down for the count within two.  
  
"Don't you think you should slow down, _Lloegr_?" Wales asks.  
  
England's head bobs a mite unsteadily as he turns it towards Wales, but his gaze is both forthright and challenging when their eyes meet. England's are red-rimmed and feverishly bright, but completely and utterly dry.  
  
Wales finds the sight more unsettling than reassuring. His brother's occasional crying jags may be excruciating and awkward to deal with, but they are at least familiar. This, he has no frame of reference for and thus no idea what it portends. His stomach tenses anxiously.  
  
England's lips twist into sneer. "This is a party, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes, but—"  
  
"Then you should relax. Enjoy yourself. I certainly intend to," England says, but the words don't sound anticipatory or even hopeful.  
  
He grinds them out so forcefully through his gritted teeth that he sounds as though he's steeling himself to go into battle, instead.


	3. Chapter 3

England had polished off his beer in one long, continuous swallow that left him gasping for air afterwards, and then, before Wales even had chance to ask him to reconsider the wisdom of the idea, bustled off to get another.  
  
He did not return with a bottle, however, but a tall glass filled with a clear liquid that Wales is almost certain isn't water, even though the speed at which his brother is glugging it down would seem to suggest the contrary.  
  
Two hours now seems like a very optimistic estimate. If he lasted two more minutes before he passed out, it'd be a minor miracle.  
  
Wales' pleas for moderation have gone unheard, as have his appeals to England's good sense. His only reasonable course of action, he presumes, is to grab the glass from England, pour its contents down the nearest sink, and then, more than likely, find some way of physically restraining him so he cannot fetch himself a replacement. Tying him to his seat seems as though it would be the easiest option, not to mention the one with the lowest chance of ending up on the receiving end of retaliatory violence.  
  
Nevertheless, Wales cannot quite muster the courage to do anything of the sort. His many centuries of playing peacekeeper for his perpetually fractious family have rendered the prospect of manhandling England whilst in possession of a clear head and steady temper such an alien one as to be almost inconceivable.  
  
If he allows himself to be the instigator even just this once, it will be held over his head in perpetuity, no doubt, and he will lose the high ground he has suffered and fought to maintain for so long, dooming his calls for constraint to be ignored for ever more.  
  
Despite the guilty conscience that has stayed both his hand and his tongue with unprecedented frequency of late, Scotland would have no such compunctions.  
  
Wales casts a pleading look across the room towards his older brother once again, but is met with nothing more than an apologetic quirk of Scotland's eyebrows, just as he had been the last four times he had tried to silently lure him away from France's side.  
  
France is clutching Scotland's hand with the sort of death-like grip a parent might keep on a toddler they fear might make a sudden dash into oncoming traffic if they were given the tiniest hint of latitude, and it is strong enough, apparently, to keep Scotland fixed firmly in place even though it has not inspired him to take any particular interest in France's conversation with Germany and Italy.  
  
England smirks when his gaze follows the direction of Wales'. "Nothing's really changed, has it," he says. "He still might as well be grabbing hold of Scotland's balls."  
  
He takes no care to modulate his tone at all, and his voice rings out so loudly that it carries clear to the opposite side of the room, making both Scotland and France flinch. They hurriedly untangle their fingers, and following a somewhat heated-looking discussion, Scotland stomps over to snarl a derisive, "Happy now?" at England.  
  
"Hardly," England drawls. "I have no wish to speak to you, though I think Wales might."  
  
Scotland's face purples, his fists clench, but, to Wales' abashed disappointment, he does not seem inclined to lunge at England and wrestle the glass from him, even after their brother mutters something disparaging into its depths before taking his next swig from it.  
  
Instead, he contents himself with nothing more than a moment's furious glowering, during which time his hands slowly unfurl. He then settles them atop Northern Ireland's head in order to give his hair its usual rough ruffle of greeting, and expels his held breath not as the threat, curse, or wordless growl of outrage Wales had been expecting, but as a perfectly civil question.  
  
"What do you need me for?"  
  
A quick glance towards England confirms that he is thoroughly preoccupied with his drinking once more, so Wales feels no need to attempt any subterfuge beyond a slight lowering of pitch as he says, "England refuses to stop drinking. I've asked him to several times now, and he just ignores me."  
  
"Why is that a problem, exactly?" Scotland asks, his forehead crinkling in confusion.  
  
"You know what he's like when he's drunk, _Yr Alban_. Given the circumstances, and the mood he's been in, it's all going to end in tears; you know that as well as I do. Do you want to have to try and cope with that? I certainly don't."  
  
Scotland's thoughtful expression is extremely short-lived, and soon dismissed by a loose shrug of his shoulders. "He's a big boy, and we're not his keepers. If he's willing to look like a complete tit in front of everyone, that's his call. What did you want me to do about it, anyway? Confiscate his vodka and then punch him in the face if he objects?"  
  
"Attempting to reason with him hasn't worked, so—"  
  
"Not a chance, Wales," Scotland says. "Not after what happened at Canada's party. I learnt my lesson. Whatever the fuck's happening with him right now, it's not a good idea to try and interfere in it. Look, if you're that bloody worried about him, why don't you just ask America to hide all the alcohol away or something."  
  
He gestures out across the growing crowd of gathered nations, drawing Wales' attention to their host, who is now standing only a few feet away, talking to France.  
  
Both France and America's colour is high, both are wreathed in smiles, and their heads are bent so close together that they're almost touching at the brow.  
  
"He looks busy," Wales says. "Perhaps I could —"  
  
He's interrupted by a loud crash, and spins round to see England lurching to his feet, the chair he'd been seated upon toppled to floor behind him. He's panting so heavily that his entire body is shuddering from the force of his exhalations.  
  
Wales takes a reflexive step towards him. " _Lloegr_ , what—"  
  
"Don't," England snaps. "Don't say a fucking word, Wales. I don't want to hear it."  
  
Scotland watches their brother storm away impassively. "Looks like that's one crisis averted, at least," he says. "He's forgotten to take his drink with him."  
  
"He'll probably just pick up another once he realises," Wales says gloomily. "I should probably go after him and see if he's okay. He really didn't look well."  
  
*You can do what the hell you like, but I'm staying right here," Scotland says. "Like I said, I think it's better all round not to get involved."

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
England is crouched on the steps leading down into America's back yard when Wales finally tracks him down, staring up at the darkening sky and toying with a cigarette, twirling it end over end between his thumb and forefinger.  
  
"I managed to scrounge a fag off Romano, but didn't think to ask to borrow a lighter," he says as Wales cautiously approaches him. "I don't suppose you have one on you, do you?"  
  
"Of course," Wales says, hurrying forward to press it into his brother's outstretched hand.  
  
It takes three attempts for England to light the cigarette, because he's still shaking slightly and clearly finding it difficult to hold himself steady enough that he can manoeuvre the flame into its proper place without prematurely snuffing it out. When the cigarette's end finally catches, he inhales hungrily, his eyebrows scrunched down so low that they seem to knit together above the bridge of his nose.  
  
And then he gives a violent cough, smoke billowing in thick plumes from his nostrils.  
  
"Jesus Christ," he wheezes. "The first drag always reminds me why I gave up."  
  
Nevertheless, he takes another. His face softens in an instant, and he makes a quiet, contented noise.  
  
"And the second makes you wonder how you ever managed to do without it," says Wales, who has not yet been able to quit smoking for more than a week at a time.  
  
"Precisely."  
  
England pats the stone next to him, and when Wales takes his seat as directed, passes him the cigarette.  
  
They exchange it back and forth until only the butt remains, which England carelessly flicks onto America's beautifully manicured lawn. He then pulls his knees up to his chest, and rests his chin against them with a long, heartfelt sigh.  
  
There's something disarmingly child-like about the pose. It makes Wales feel brave enough to attempt something he hasn't dared to for years, and he reaches out to curve his palm around the back of England's bowed neck.  
  
England offers no protest, and, emboldened by this complaisance, Wales slides his hand a little higher to cup the back of his head. He can't even recall the last time he touched his brother's hair; it's coarser than he remembers it being, and its sharply cut ends bristle against his skin.  
  
"Are you all right, _brawd_?" Wales asks, stumbling over his words slightly as England arches up into that small point of contact, rather like the stray cat Wales feeds in his garden in Cardiff does on those rare occasions she deigns to let him touch her.  
  
"Yes," England says, and then, almost immediately afterwards, "Not really." He clears his throat roughly a couple of times, but still struggles to eke out enough breath to ask, "Did you know that France has fucked America?"  
  
"No," Wales says. He's never even heard so much as a rumour that there may be a rumour of such a thing, but the discovery comes as no great surprise, all the same.  
  
"I... I don't know precisely when it first happened," England says. "But my best guess is that it wasn't long after... After America left me. They were thick as fucking thieves back then."  
  
Which would likely mean that it coincided with Wales' own brief dalliance with France. That doesn't really surprise him, either. France never promised him anything close to fidelity, after all.  
  
"That was a long, long time ago," Wales says slowly and with the utmost care. Inexplicable as it might seem to both him and Scotland, America's revolution is nonetheless a wound that has never quite healed for England, and it's always at its rawest on this day. "You don't think it's still going on, do you?"  
  
England shakes his head. "It's not that... It's..." He pauses, swallows heavily, and then continues in barely more than a whisper: "The frog might be a despicable weasel of a man, but, in some ways, I would guess his are very big boots to try and fill. Fuck's sake, I'm more than two thousand years old, _Cymru_ ; people would, I assume, have certain expectations of me that I would be bound to disappoint, given my... history."  
  
He met had the revelation of the lie Wales and Scotland had told him in their youth with nothing but anger; never once before admitting that it might have caused a single moment of anguish or doubt. And Wales had thought his heart couldn't possibly sink any lower.  
  
"If it was the right person, it wouldn't matter," he says, flexing his fingers until his nails dig gently into England's scalp. "Or you'd find a way to make it not matter."  
  
England snorts humourlessly. "I wish I could believe you, but I haven't been able to keep myself from imagining all of the many, many ways this could go wrong for _weeks_ ," he says. "And now I'm here, I... I don't think I can go through with it. I suspect there isn't enough Dutch courage in the world."  
  
Which is as close to confession that he meant to share some revelations of his own as he is ever likely to make. Considering his behaviour at Canada's party, the only shocking thing is that he's chosen to trust Wales with even oblique hints as to his intentions.  
  
"Then don't do it," Wales says. "Wait until you're absolutely certain it's what you want. It doesn't _have_ to be tonight, right?"  
  
"Yes, it does," England says decisively.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because... Because, whatever happens, this date's already ruined for me. I wouldn't want to risk spoiling another."  
  
"Oh, England," Wales begins, but, for once, he can't find a way to put his thoughts into words. They're too nebulous to easily articulate; nothing more than a vague snatches of pity and guilt, all entangled in the threadbare remains of the protectiveness he has never quite been able to rid himself of as Scotland has.  
  
Bereft of any better ideas of how to proceed, he acts solely on impulse and presses a swift kiss to England's forehead.  
  
England's mouth gapes open, and all is silent, still, and horrifically, painfully awkward, until he lets slip a hoarse and guttural noise that sounds embarrassingly close to gagging.  
  
"What the fuck was that in aid of, Wales?" he grumbles, scrubbing at his forehead with his sleeve.  
  
"I'm not entirely sure," Wales says, letting his own head droop down to both hide both the flush he can feel rising and avoid meeting his brother's eyes. "Though I suppose we could blame it on being drunk?"  
  
"You're sober," England points out unhelpfully.  
  
"But you aren't," Wales says. "And no doubt you dream up all sorts of ridiculous things when you're drunk which you then forget about _entirely_ the next morning."  
  
England considers this for a while, and then agrees, "All the time." He chuckles dryly. "And _I_ suppose I should get to drinking some more to ensure that excuse will hold water."  
  
" _Lloegr_..."  
  
England dismisses the interjection with a brisk flap of his hands. "I know you're concerned, Wales," he says, "but please don't try and stop me again. I know it may not seem that way, but it really is helping me. I can't imagine being able to get through the rest of the night without it."


End file.
